1 Sunshine Hunter (17 page)

Sitting in my car again felt like a warm hug. I loved this car. My dad and Harold were like two little kids when they decided to restore old muscle cars. Mom had been after Dad for weeks after he retired to “
find something to do!”
I think he was driving her crazy following her around the house.

Harold had a ’68 Mustang in his garage and asked Dad to help him restore it. It only took them a couple of months to complete the wo
rk, and it turned out gorgeous. Harold drove that car around town as proud as a peacock in the driver’s seat. When a man contacted Harold about restoring his Camaro, a restoration business was born. Dad and Harold had a blast working on the cars and would only take on a project if they deemed the car to have muscle. When Dad came across the ’67 Chevelle SS in a junkyard, he had to have it, and the two of them restored it. So, there was Harold driving the Mustang and Dad driving the Chevelle. We were worried they would start drag racing. The two cars could be seen together all over town, and they had a lot of fun showing them off. I was shocked and delighted when Dad gave the car to me last year for my 27th birthday.

I turned the key and smiled at the sound of the aggressive engine. I backed out of the carport. I had been home for almost two hours now, and it was time to take care of some business.

My flight home had been completely uneventful. I didn’t see anyone at all as I slipped out the side door of the hotel to the cab, and I spent most of the time on the flight reading a book. After a short cab ride home, I was ready to face the music with the police.

I was on my way to see Detective Bentley, but decided
first to make a pit stop at the racquetball club first. I wanted to pick up my gym bag and take a quick look around. It was only noon, but maybe someone would be there who had some information on how the interviews had gone with the detective. Any heads-up I could get before going downtown would be helpful.

It was a little unsettling to pull up in front of the club. My heart was still heavy for Jerry and my inadvertent part i
n his death. If only I had pitched that glass of juice, but it wasn’t the first time I’d left drinks for Jerry, or shared a drink with Samantha, or drank from Husky’s water bottle. We were a pretty relaxed bunch.

There was a new face behind the front desk. She was an older woman, and there was definitely no athletic build on her. She could be anybody’s mother, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had cookies behind the counter to give to me. I smiled at my own wit. I was just so happy to be home.

“Hi,” I addressed her. “I’m Susan Hunter. I work here, too.”

“Oh, Susan!” she exclaimed as she
ran around from behind the counter to give me a big hug. “I’m so happy to meet you. Stan and Louise have told me so much about you. Isn’t it dreadful everything that’s been happening around here? And I’m so sorry everyone thinks you murdered Jerry, but Stan and Louise know that’s not true, and it’s all a big mistake. I’m Sophie. What can I do for you, dear?”

Oh my gosh! I didn’t know what to make of this whirling dervish. Where were the cookies? I
couldn’t get past the fact she said everyone thought I murdered Jerry. Was that true? How did that get out?

“It’s nice to meet you, Sophie,” I said and smiled at her. “I just stopped by to pick up my gym bag. I accidentally left it here last Saturday. It’s probably in the office.” I started to walk toward the office door.

“Check the schedule while you’re in there,” she called after me. “Louise said you’ll be closing tonight.”

What? I was scheduled to work tonight? I just got home. “Do you know why I’m working this weekend?” I asked her. “Wasn’t anybody else available?”

“Oh, we’re terribly short-handed here,” she said. “A couple of the day girls quit. They were awfully spooked by the murder. Louise said to tell you she’s hired someone to close the club on nights, but he can’t start until Monday, so she put you on the schedule for tonight and tomorrow night. I was supposed to call you later today, but now that you’re here, I just told you.” She was all smiles and seemed very proud of herself.

My head was starting to hurt. I mustered a smile, “Will you be working here permanently, Sophie?” I needed to know if I should change clubs.

“Oh, no. I work in the cafeteria over at Carbide Elementary. I’m off for the summer, of course, so I told Louise I would fill in for her while she’s short-handed. I must say, it’s much easier working here than in the cafeteria, but the food isn’t as good.”

I went into the office, but didn’t see my bag. I looked behind the desk, around the filing cabinet, even under a pile of stray towels. What were they doing in here? Things were definitely not as organized as they were a week ago. I finally found my bag shoved into the small storage closet. I almost missed it as it had been wedged between some boxes. I was slightly indignant. I hadn’t had time to put the clean clothes in my locker, and they were probably wrinkled by now. I wouldn’t have treated someone else’s personal belongings like th
is. I glanced at the schedule and saw I was penciled in from 9:00 P.M. until 1:00 A.M. It was going to be a long night.

I said good-bye to Sophie, tossed my bag into the back seat of my car, and slipped behind the wheel. I pushed in the 8-track tape, and the sounds of The Doors singing
Light My Fire
filled the car. I loved that Dad had left a cache of 8-track tapes with music from 1967 in the car. Hearing the raspy voice of Jim Morrison singing to me, asking me to light his fire made me smile, and made Sophie and her non-cookies disappear.

It was time to stop dawdling and head downtown to see Detective Bentley.

The downtown area was only fifteen minutes from the club. Carbide City was founded in the mid-1800s, and many of the buildings had been restored in the past fifty years. Some of the architecture was stunning. The Catholic church had been built in a black Victorian Gothic style. The exterior of the church was impressive with large stained glass windows, pointed arched openings, and intricate iron lacework. Many of the old buildings had Greek or Romanesque styles with American designs. One beautiful old farmhouse bordering on the downtown area had been a stop on the Underground Railroad. It was a lovely older town with a lot of rich history to offer if one took the time to look for it.

Because of urban sprawl and shopping malls, I didn’t get downtown as much as I used to. When I was younger, my mother and I would make a special day of it, coming downtown to shop the myriad of stores and have lunch.

As I cruised into the downtown area, I felt nostalgic. I had taken a cue from Darby and had the windows down, making it easier to take in the familiar sights and sounds. It was hot today, but not nearly has hot and humid as it had been in Florida.

A sudden wave of unease swept over me, and even though I had n
othing to hide, I realized I was suddenly very nervous about walking into the police station as a murder suspect. What if I never came out? I wished Darby were here with me to talk to the detective. He could help explain the events in Florida. Duh! Why didn’t I think of that before? He and Johnny would be landing soon; maybe I should come back later. No, I wanted to get this over.

The police station didn’t have a parking lot, so I would have to park on the street. The spaces directly in front of the station were reserved for police cars, so I ended up driving around the block a couple of times waiting for a space to open across the street.

When one opened up, I performed a fine job of parallel parking between a plain white delivery van and a Chevy Suburban. I grabbed my purse, reached for the door handle, and stopped cold. Coming out of the coffee shop just ahead was the Thursday night man. He was wearing white pants and a white shirt. He wasn’t smiling, he kept his head down, and he got into the delivery van in front of me. He pulled out into traffic. I had to follow him.

My red Chevelle was not a good car for being discreet. I kept several cars between us so as not to draw attention. Traffic was moving slowly through town, so it was easy to keep the white van in sight. He turned west onto Old Carbide Rd. and proceeded to head up over the viaduct into the oldest section of town.

This was not a seedy part of town, but the homes were older and had not been restored or even as well maintained as in other parts of town. Some lawns were manicured, while others were unkempt. The neighborhood was a mix of middle and lower middle class families.

The white van pulled into a small parking lot and drove around behind a plain yellow bric
k building. I continued on and turned around at a gas station one block down the street. I drove past the building slowly, and saw the van parked at the back. There was a sign on the door, Ferange’s Bakery. A small OPEN sign hung below the name. I had been so intent on watching the van, I hadn’t seen either of the signs on my first pass.

I parked on the street a few yards up from the bakery and decided to go in. I still thought the man had something suspicious to do with Jerry - like drug dealing and supplying him with steroids.

The old building was cool inside – almost chilly. The large floor space was open and bare. On the left wall and the facing wall were two bakery cases displaying donuts, cakes, and cookies. Signs on the walls behind them announced prices and information about special orders. The lighting gave the room a dingy feel, but upon closer inspection, it was obvious everything was clean and spotless. To the right of the main case was a set of stairs leading upward to a closed door. The wall to the right was lined with large boxes of supplies stacked about ten high. I suspected the drugs the man was peddling were in some of these boxes. He was smart hiding the evidence in plain sight.

There was no one in the room to serve customers. Granted, I was the only customer,
but still, I was surprised there was no sign of a clerk. I looked over the donuts and cakes. The cakes were beautifully and expertly decorated; the donuts looked light and airy. Even the cake donuts didn’t look heavy. But I was mostly interested in the cookies. When I wanted something sweet, a cookie was my first choice. The case held the typical varieties of chocolate chip, oatmeal, and molasses cookies. There were numerous types of brownies and a section of specialty cookies to include maple bacon, dipped macaroons, turtles, and lemon sandwiches. I don’t know why I always took the time to look at all of the cookies when my purchase was always the same – half a dozen snickerdoodles. My mom taught me to make them when I was six years old. My dad loved them and dipped them in his coffee. He always said I was his little cookie baker, and snickerdoodles have always been my favorite.

At least ten minutes had passed, and I was getting a little
nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe they were closed, and someone forgot to take the sign down. I was going to leave, but the door at the top of the stairs opened. I could see a much more brightly lit area behind the door and some activity indicating the actual baking was done there. A small woman dressed in all white and a full apron walked down the stairs. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, dear. Have you been here long?”

“About ten minutes,” I told her.

“I didn’t hear the buzzer when you came in, but Jessie finally told me someone was at the cases.” She pointed up to a security camera. “After all these years, you’d think I’d watch the monitors more closely,” she said smiling at me. “Most of our customers are here early in the morning, so I don’t tend to watch as well as I should after ten o’clock.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” I told the wo
man, “and I never realized a bakery was here. Have you been open long?”

“Almost two years now,” she said. “This used to be a car parts shop. My husband is a baker at heart and always had a dream of opening a bakery. Two years ago, we took the plunge, opened this place, and things have been going pretty well. I’ll tell my hu
sband you didn’t know about us. Maybe he should go back over his marketing strategy.”

I liked this woman. Now this was a woman who was like anybody’s mom, and she really did have the cookies. I completely forgot about the drugs in the boxes.

“Do you have a website?” I asked her.

“We do
,” she acknowledged. “But it basically just has our name, location, hours, and a few words about our business. I don’t know if we get much traffic from it or not.”

“Let me leave a number with you,” I told her as I fished in my purse for a piece of paper and a pen. I jotted down Darby’s number. “I know someone who’s a freelance writer. He’s very good at web writing, and he can give you ideas for your page. He should also be able to help you with some marketing ideas.”

“Thank you,” she said as she folded the paper and put it in her apron. “I’ll pass this on to my husband. Did you see anything you’d like today?”

“Half a dozen snic
kerdoodles, please. I love them,” I said as I gave her a big smile.

“Oh, I love them, too,” she said. “We use my grandmother’s recipe, and the cookie just melts in your mouth.”

My mouth was watering as she opened a bag and picked up a pair of tongs. The door above the staircase opened again, and a man came through with a sheet cake in his arms. It was the Thursday night man!

I tried not to flinch or act
as if anything was wrong. I suddenly remembered the drugs in the boxes and attempted to keep the smile on my face.